


Destruction, Crime Scenes and Lust.

by MissMisadventure



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Plot, Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, F/M, Kidnapping, M/M, Moriarty is his own warning, My First Smut, Post-Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Pre-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Revenge Sex, Warnings May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 11:33:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6564553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMisadventure/pseuds/MissMisadventure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Viola Blushe is an clever, but arrogant woman, who made a bet in her youth with James Moriarty. After a few years passed, she managed to win the bet, but won't get to enjoy her reward according to him.<br/>She now seeks help from infamous Sherlock Holmes to escape Moriarty's betrayal of their arrangment and causes a fair amount of chaos in the process.<br/>(Sorry I suck at summaries)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Bet

**Author's Note:**

> "No one ever gets to me... and no one ever will." - Moriarty in "The Great Game".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Please feel free to tell me if I should add any warnings, I hope I covered all of them, but you never know.)  
> Enjoy!

Sighing, Moriarty stepped into his flat. He felt apathetic to his surroundings, his ever-active mind buzzing, restless in his body, once again thirsting to be unleashed on the city. The torture he had endured with the Iceman had been a welcomed break in his routine, but even that quickly became monotone and so very boring.  
Just as he went to switch on the lights, a hand closed around his shoulder as the cold burn of a blade pressed against his throat.

“Gotcha!” whispered Viola darkly. Her breath tickled the back of his neck like the one of the Reaper coming to fetch his next victim. In the shadows of the empty hallway, she missed how Moriarty’s eyes widened before settling on an amused expression. While he had somehow missed her presence so close to his, and was, theoretically in mortal danger, James was calm. “Finally, he thought, something interesting.”

 

It had been nearly 3 years, since the two of them had seen each other. Back then, Viola had been a baby-faced narcissist with a disarranged mop of frizzy, dark brown hair on top of her head, barely reaching under his chin, who had not been able to resist betting with the big, bad criminal James Moriarty about who could get to whom first. Both fancied the challenge that only existed between this special sort of people, especially since either had been sure to corner the other before 5 years had passed.

Moriarty had stumbled upon Viola by accident really, she was not supposed to be anything more than a mean to his goals, but turned out to be quite fascinating. So very clever and emotionally unattached, she lacked weaknesses that made ordinary people so painfully obvious. With no easily determined pressure points, James had welcomed her as another distraction in his life just before Sherlock Holmes stepped onto his radar.  
Now, however, she had gotten to him, she had accomplished what nobody had ever done before, what not even the great Sherlock Holmes with his pitiful sidekick Dr. Watson had attempted.

 

Moriarty contained his explosive anger that directed him normally to kill people without any consideration or hesitation, when the blade, which until now had rested snugly against his jugular, cut slightly deeper, starting a small track of pearling blood down his neck, staining the collar of his white button-down.  
Having lost all humour over the situation, the man suddenly turned around, towards her, elongating the thin line of the wound. Surprised, the woman took a step back, hitting the wall behind her with a “thunk”. They made eye contact just for a second, before Moriarty’s hand wrapped around hers lightning-quick, tearing the knife away from himself. She rapidly let go, ducking from the oncoming blow, and disappeared through the door, the same way she came before he even had a chance to chase after her.

Panting with the adrenaline rushing through his veins, James slowly pried each one of his fingers from the handle of the blade he had embedded in the wall opposite to him. Delighted and furious at the same time, he brought his other hand up to his throat, noting satisfied that it was too superficial to do any damage, even less leave a scar. He certainly did not want to be reminded of her besting him every time he looked in a mirror.

 

A few blocks away, Viola was just as high on a rush of power and satisfaction, having won the bet. She still remembered the stakes clearly.

 

_(Flashback)_  
_“If I win, you’re mine Viola. To do with as I please. Completely, entirely, utterly mine.”_  
_Jim’s eyes had that crazed glint in them as he licked his lips, as if needing to make his insinuation any more obvious. Although his apparent lust could just as well be a slow horrible, bloody death after breaking her mind with elaborate, sadistic games._

_“And what do I get when I find you first?” She asked, full of arrogant confidence that came both with her age and with her intellect and lit a fire in James that he had no interest to extinguish, at least for now._

_“If, you mean.” corrected Moriarty just as smug. “Nobody has ever gotten to me. No one ever will.”_

_Viola raised her eyebrows doubtfully. Her look was just as intense as his._

_“But let me indulge you. IF you win, I’ll be yours. To do with as you wish. That seem fair to you dear?”_

_She pouted her full lips at him, pondering his offer, her small hands resting on her hips, the tip of her toes beating a rhythm into the ground._  
_“Well, to be honest, I can think of many things more stimulating than having you at my disposal.” she answered finally, disinterest tainting her voice._

_“I don’t think you do.” he sing-songed in a high-pitched voice._

_She gave him a calculating look. “Fine, I guess I’ll settle then.” She hummed questioningly. “How about you leave me alone for the rest of my life? Sound good? Because I imagine it to be titillating.”_

_“Fine. Be boring, why don’t you? Until next time, darling.”_  
_And with that, James left._  
_(Flashback end)_

 

She got to him! She managed to gain an advantage over James Moriarty. Accomplishment never felt as good and her award was certainly worth it, or so she thought.

 

_**-Fast forward a few weeks-** _

John was sitting bound and gagged on a chair in an empty room. He was fuming internally, his head pounding and his nose rhythmically dripping blood onto his trousers.  
Moriarty had caught him again, this time on his way to Mary’s office, and John had struggled, doing his best to escape, he really did, but against the criminal’s associates, he did not stand a chance. So now, he was once again waiting for his dishevelled knight in shining armour to rescue him and he had a sinking feeling that Moriarty did not have a too “simple” objective for once.

In the meantime, James was giddy with joy, playing with Sherlock’s beloved pet and waiting for his favourite “nemesis” to arrive. He had ordered John to be taken to an abandoned building on the outskirts of London that had a quite secure room in its basement, even if it did not reflect on the outside. This location was by far one of his favourite for many reasons, one of which was the handy metal grid in the middle of the room that lead straight down to the sewers. The smell was not pleasant, but it was very practical.

Watson’s chair was placed pre-emptively over that grid; both were locked together, and Moriarty had taken the liberty of cuffing his guest in multiple places to the chair to ensure his captivity. The criminal’s playroom was completely empty with the exception of a chair, a blank, cheap-looking table, and a heavy metal door with a passcode. He originally did not want to gag the dear doctor, but his spewing of insults and threats soon became dull and repetitive. And the bleeding nose, well, that John had to take responsibility for, Moriarty’s men had warned him not to struggle and struggle he did.

James had cut short the usual dance around his motives and had simply proposed a trade to the detective: a woman by the name of Viola Blushe against Dr. John Watson.  
While to his surprise Mary had seemed to have actual concerns about trading another person’s life against her husband and father of her child, Sherlock, of course, did not have these kinds of moral difficulties. He simply was trying to figure out where exactly Moriarty’s interest in this girl lay.

 

_**-At 221b Baker Street-** _

Sherlock was sitting, leaning forward, in his armchair, his long hands folded under his chin by pressing two of his fingers on each hand together, bracing his elbows on his knees, a concentrated look in his eyes. He had not moved an inch in the last few hours, much to the annoyance of Mrs Hudson, who was trying her best to improve the situation, sick with worry over John.

Mary had already located Viola through some old contacts of hers she kept around for this very reason. Finally, fed up with the lack of Sherlock’s help, she spoke up: “What the hell does Moriarty want from this girl? And why doesn’t he get her himself? There must be a reason he can’t.”

“Obviously.” Sherlock spoke curtly. “She is difficult to find, but not impossible. There must be a reason why Moriarty has not retrieved her by his own means.”

He pondered: “There are 2 more or less probable possibilities why he hasn’t. Either he doesn’t want to, in which case his final interest lies somewhere else and this is nothing but a mere distraction. Alternatively, he actually cannot get to her, which would mean Miss Blushe is in possession of something damaging to Moriarty. The latter being easiest to test.”

“So we’re going?” Mary asked. At the lack of response, she looked up, only to see Sherlock already descending the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC


	2. The Exchange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably should have read this chapter once more before posting... Please let me know if you spot any errors.  
> Enjoy!

Peculiarly, considering Sherlock’s and Mary’s skillsets, as well as resources, it took them several days to catch Viola. She did not seem to have any sort of routine, did not return “home” every night, and was almost impossible to surprise, but eventually, their paths crossed at a crime scene of all places.

Sherlock’s enthusiasm to solve the most recent mindboggling case for the police was slightly diminished through the absence of his favourite audience member. He could not quite enjoy the way the culprit had practically laid out all evidence for him to find and certainly was not bothered to be anything less than intolerable to anyone with the exception of Mary.

He had just arrived at the scene, when he spotted her in the crowd standing behind the yellow police tape surrounding the crime scene. She stood out in between morbidly curious people craning their necks to get a good look at the covered body, since she seemed entranced by the hysterically crying wife of the victim.  
Ignoring whatever Lestrade was jabbering on about, he quickly stepped over the body carelessly, ducked under the tape and with three long-legged strides stood in front of the mysterious woman, who had managed to escape the infamous James Moriarty.

“Miss”, he said impatiently, “you are going to have to come with me. It’s about our common acquaintance.”

Viola looked up to meet his regard confidently, but did not make any kind of move suggesting an intention to follow him. Usually not particularly affectionate, he placed his hand carefully around her wrist, noting absently that she was a guitarist, judging by the callouses on her hands, before dragging her gently behind him to the car.

“Keep up.”

Viola liked to think that her appearance had something graceful, but the way she was stumbling next to Sherlock, trying to cross the same distance he did with every step, surely was not. Nevertheless, she tolerated his grip until they got to the car, having been seeking him out for the very same reason, but unable to visit him at 221b Baker Street.  
She silently joined him in the backseat of the taxi, looking out the window until they arrived at their destination. In a multitude of ways, she was relieved that the obvious did not have to be repeated aloud, knowing alike Sherlock, the constrictions to their meeting.

 

He led her into the couple’s home, where Mary was coincidently already seated in the living room, giving her about 8 seconds to control her facial expression of surprise, guilt, the usual. As Viola sat on an empty chair, opposite to Mary, she considered asking Mr Holmes for help.  
She was sure that Moriarty would not respect their deal and return for her, probably sooner rather than later. More so, she would have strongly preferred to have the help of the only man as clever as Moriarty. However, to make sure that he was forced to show his deck first, she chose to make small talk until his patience ran thin.

“I’m surprised that you can just show up and leave crime scenes like that. Consultant or not.”

Sherlock slowly exhaled through his nose. “There was no reason for me to stay any longer; it was obvious that the wife was the killer. I texted Lestrade.”  
He folded one leg over the other and leaned forward, clearly ready to take on the silent challenge.

Viola hummed agreeably. “Her shoes were at least a size too small.” she giggled quietly and Sherlock felt a tug at the corner of his mouth, unable to stop himself from smiling in response, feeling kinship towards her amusement over such a foolish mistake.

Mary considered asking for the correlation between the wife’s shoe size and her motives as a murderer, but decided not to, knowing too well the exasperated reaction she would get. Besides, she needed to figure out how exactly to take this woman to Moriarty, seeing that forcing her physically was not Sherlock Holmes’s style.  
She started to signal a fake discomfort through her body language, manipulating the way she sat, while Sherlock and Viola kept chattering along. After a few minutes, Mary was satisfied her distraction had gotten enough attention and went to excuse herself from the room, feigning a backache.

“Pregnancy does have its upsides, she thought, an excuse that never loses authenticity.”

Not too hastily, Mrs Watson walked to the bedroom and closed the door behind her, before lying down on the bed with an audible groan of relief that could be heard by the other two in the next room. She waited a few seconds, got up silently, without even rustling the sheets and nervously went to open the safe where her husband kept his gun.

 

In the meanwhile, the atmosphere in the living room became tense like during a poker game. Either opponent was trying to identify the tell of the other, hoping they would reveal their hand. Sherlock ultimately fell silent, tired of keeping the farce and since Viola did plan to ask for his help later on, she felt like extending an olive branch and broke the silence.

“Moriarty.” she stated, weighing his reaction, but he remained stoic.

Just as she opened her mouth to elaborate on her request, she heard a click behind her of a gun being cocked. Viola froze, closing her eyes in frustration as she realised the threat she had ignored on account of a seemingly weak and pregnant woman.

“Get up. Slowly.” Mary’s voice was cold, but hesitated slightly. All the same, any chance of empathy Viola had hoped for vanished when she saw the calculating, determined look in Sherlock’s eyes.

 

They ended up all seated in Mary’s car, Sherlock in the backseat with Viola still at gunpoint. As the former spy drove to the location of the exchange, she observed Sherlock wracking his brain over this woman’s connections to his nemesis in her rear-view mirror. Even though she knew that Sherlock had wanted to explore the possibility of this woman’s knowledge of Moriarty being damaging to him, she did not try to figure out the bigger plan. Nor was she willing to risk John’s life for it. To her, it did not matter, ever since she abandoned her old life and identity, she was satisfied with living happily ever after with her husband and their future baby girl.

They arrived at the destined location, and directed Viola out of the backseat of the car to the elevator of the building, going through the front door. _Uncomplicated._ That was what Mary liked these days. _Handing some innocent young woman over to a terribly dangerous criminal was also… uncomplicated. Easy even._ Mary swallowed the guilt down and carried on with her mission.

Sherlock pushed the button to the ninth floor. As they left the elevator, they stopped in front of a locked door that promised to keep a probably wounded, but alive Watson captured. They barely waited a minute, or to be exact 1 minute and 23 seconds, when the door opened and Moriarty was welcoming them in. _He was always meeting them alone and yet, he never seemed to take any uncalculated risks._ Both Sherlock and Mary knew better than to try anything, after all it was John’s life in danger.

“Ah, you found her, I see.” exclaimed Moriarty, grinning happily. “I hope she wasn’t too much of a hassle”, he added mockingly.

“Where is he?” interrupted Mary him, unwilling to play his games any longer.

He ignored her. Suddenly he took a step forward and jabbed a needle into Viola’s neck, emptying its contents into her blood stream. She went down like a rock, her fall only interrupted by Sherlock’s arms wrapping around her. Her head lolled back as he struggled to keep her upright in this awkward position.

“Give her here.” James demanded coldly.

Sherlock carefully handed her over, slightly worried over the sour taste in his mouth that reminded him of the few moments in his life where he felt actual regret.  
As soon as she was in his arms, Moriarty held her head up with one of his hands, softly, like cradling a doll, before her dropping her on the ground unaffected. Even Mary winced at the dull sound of the girl’s head smacking on the tile floor.

“Follow me.” Moriarty rounded the corner of the hallway without spending a second looking at the small puddle of blood spreading near Viola’s head.

“Lady’s first”, he said teasingly, while he motioned first for Sherlock and then for Mary to enter the next room.

 

The smell of it might have turned other people’s stomach, but for people who frequently visited crime scenes and changed the nappies of the neighbour’s baby for practice, both Mary and Sherlock remained undisturbed. On a single chair, bolted to the floor in the middle of the room, sat John, sunk into himself, breathing shallowly.

Sherlock quickly assessed the situation: One of his eyes was swollen shut, his lower lip split and his nostrils caked in coagulated blood, but otherwise he seemed unharmed. No broken extremities or any other external injuries. The stench mainly came from the bodily fluids that collected underneath him and formed a sad, macabre, melting sandcastle on the perforated metal floor of excrements and urine.

His hair was sticking up in a way that let Sherlock to hypothesise that he probably was cleaned with a hose and a great deal of water pressure, judging by the dripping valve mounted on the wall left from him.

Mary cast forward to untie him, dropping to her knees in front of him, not caring about the filth she was kneeling in. Sneering, James handed her the key, for which she had already extended her open palm, fed up with all the showcasing and peacocking that Moriarty and Sherlock loved so dearly.

“You know Sherly, the criminal addressed the detective derogatorily, you should really make sure that your pet is house trained. It was such a pain to clean up after him.”

Sherlock visibly startled, fixed him with his regard, still analysing the situation.

“Oho, exclaimed Moriarty, did Sherly still not figure out my plan? Daddy can explain if you ask nicely.”

“Not necessary.” Sherlock hissed through his teeth while his face stayed neutral, then he furrowed his brows, realising his mistake. _His pride always won the best of him, no matter the situation._

Before he could correct his tiny mishap, Mary called his name: “Sherlock! A little help.”

Mentally prioritising his best friend, Sherlock concentrated on helping Mary lift John of the chair and carrying him to the elevator, all while filing away the conversation and whole experience for later observation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment, I would absolutely love it if you do! As a long time lurker and first time poster, I welcome all and any criticism, preferably constructive.
> 
> Have a great adventure!
> 
> mary.


End file.
